You Could Put The Past Away
by piratesmiley
Summary: Set in the future. "Peter couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Olivia Dunham had just crawled into bed with him." Peter/Olivia.


A/N: Takes place in the future.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

Peter couldn't be sure, but he thought that Olivia Dunham had just crawled into bed with him.

He had woken with a start at the bed dipping and the new heat radiating towards his back, and now he was pure quiet, holding his breath for some sort of indication as to what had just happened.

He could tell that she was awake, and that she realized that he was conscious as well. So, twisting on impulse, he rolled over and matched himself up with her. He realized he was being bold, but he didn't care. His fatigued daze made him courageous. He listened carefully and caught the tiny hitch in her breath.

Then, she started to giggle—one mad, hysteric hiccup, then another.

He froze in bewilderment.

"What the hell…?" He had meant it to come out scathing, but it ended up lazy, with a smile attached. He could feel her shudders reverberate against the bed, and it was comforting.

She laughed for a little while longer, and then, apologetically, "I suppose I shouldn't have done that."

She started to lift herself up, and that's when he noticed the half-dried trails that tears had left on her pretty face. His hand stopped her automatically, and she locked eyes with him, a moment of indecision, before lying back down. Instead of turning away, though, she left her gaze on him. He pulled himself up and rested his head in his palm to watch her.

They were supposed to be at home, in their own (separate) beds, not this last minute hotel room. They had had to go out of town, and the drive was long. It was already dark by the time they were done, and here's where they ended up.

They sat in silence, watching each other. This was a strange situation. Technically, that hadn't done anything to cross any sort of barrier, and yet…something had changed. Something had opened up—an opportunity, maybe. She had only crawled into his bed because she was lonely, and in her tired state it had made sense. But she was much more awake now, and she found that she wanted to stay.

He smiled at her. Olivia smiled back, unsure, a bit perplexed.

"What are we doing?" she asked, genuinely wondering, eyes refusing to leave his face.

He didn't know. He didn't want to answer.

She pushed herself up to match him, inches apart, curtains of hair fanning out like a barrier between them and the rest of the world. He could feel her breath, warm on his face.

She wasn't really sure what she was doing, and it was late, and she was stressed and tired and a million more excuses, but she just leaned in and he met her half way.

--

It went on for a while.

He was warm and sweet, and he even kissed intelligently. He was someone who understood. He matched her in every way. And when his lips bordered hers in desperation, she felt the same.

For a fleeting moment she wondered why she hadn't done this sooner; she would have been happy a long time ago.

But then they break apart, and quietly, ruefully declare that this isn't right—unprofessional. This would not happen again.

--

This was a lie. They kissed again when they woke up (she just leaned over, stretching, and kissed him sweetly, like she couldn't help herself), and in the shower (every inch of her was soft and wet), and when after the drive home (they sat in the car, not really sure if it should stop here, now—but they just _couldn't_).

He was her sole ally. She was his greatest confidant.

--

They laid on the floor of the Bishop's seemingly permanent hotel room, as they did on occasion when they deemed themselves too tired to move. It was quiet (except for Walter, who was bustling around in the next room, muttering about grilled cheese sandwiches and the Theory of Everything), but Peter wanted to break it.

"Well," he said. "I'll never think about the color orange the same way again."

(This latest case featured mainly orange things—some regular orange things that were secretly malicious, and other very strange and creepy orange objects. It had been an interesting week.)

Olivia snorted delicately. "Me too. I think my brain may be permanently stained orange."

"I am wearing orange underwear!" Walter yelled abruptly, nodding as he poking his head in. He smiled at the pair on the carpet.

"_Never_ the same." Peter shuddered.

Olivia smiled. She found she was doing more of that lately.

He caught her smile. "What?"

She paused, looking for the words. "I'm happy."

He smiled with her and softly congratulated her: "Good. I'm glad."


End file.
